


Legitimized

by togo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Banter, Father-Son Relationship, Gendry is a Baratheon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togo/pseuds/togo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short little fic based on the possible reaction of Gendry to being legitimized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legitimized

Gendry stood outside the heavy, ornate wooden doors of King Robert Baratheon’s Small Council chambers. He nervously shifted weight from left foot, to right foot, and back again. Distantly he could hear a muted discussion occurring between several deep male voices, and one tenor. Gendry honed in on the loud baritone that must belong to the King. He was complaining loudly about “the Lannister bitch” and a vacancy in the Kingsguard.

Two Kingsguards knights had escorted to these large, intimidating doors. Gendry kept his head down but he couldn’t help but curiously glance at the older man who bid him to wait silently. Ser Barristan Selmy, the infamous Barristan the Bold.

Ser Barristan gently commanded him to wait outside the King’s Small Council chambers but said no more. The older knight dutifully ignored the young man’s nervous behavior in favor of staring at down the long corridor.

_What in Seven Hells is going on?_

At the age of four and ten Gendry was apprenticed to Tobho Mott. The master armorer had taken young Gendry under his wing after his mother died. Gendry only knew that a mysterious patron had paid a high price to have him apprenticed to Mott, and he had never complained. He had a place to sleep and a useful profession. That was more than most boys had.

He spent his days hammering steel and his nights learning learning finer technique like how to make filigree or emboss armor. Mott was a metal genius and Gendry considered himself quite fortunate.

Where did it all go wrong?

First, the old Lord Hand came to see him, accompanied by the King’s brother Lord Stannis. Gendry recalled Lord Arryn’s piercing gaze as the highborn lord looked him up and down, as if measuring him for a suit of armor. Lord Stannis  asked him to stand straight and look him in the eye, a difficult task for a lowborn to do, but he managed. The Lord seemed at once both pleased, and displeased by Gendry’s compliance and the pair left soon after.

Months passed and Gendry fell back into the easy rhythm of pounding steel, eating stale bread, and sleeping under a cracked roof. He’d all but forgotten about the unusual visit by the lords who bought none of Tobho Mott’s work. The Lord Hand had died from sickness and Lord Stannis left the city. Nothing ever came of it, so why bother trying to understand the motivations of highborns?

Then, the second Lord Hand had come. The northern lord was younger and seemed to recognize him instantly without Gendry ever saying a word. Gendry showed him the helmet, as he showed Lord Arryn, and was surprised when Lord Stark offered to buy the work, but he refused to sell. He couldn’t sell the only piece he had, could he? No one would ever know he was any good.

And then last night… They just took him.

Men in heavy leather armor appeared at dusk, each of them bearing the sigil of the northern wolf. Gendry had learned all his sigils during his apprenticeship because it was important for a smith to know the lords and knights he was servicing, especially if that blacksmith wanted to maintain a clientele in King’s Landing. Gendry remembering the bolt of fear that traveled down his spine at the sight of the roaring direwolf. Lord Stark had summoned him to the Red Keep.

The men in grey handed a letter to his master and it was decided. Gendry couldn’t help but feel a twinge of betrayal toward the man who’d fed and clothed him the past several years. All it took was a word from a lord and Gendry was handed over like cattle. He barely had time to gather his things and his helmet before being shepherded toward the Keep.

After being shown to a room that was far too rich for his taste - by the Gods, he was afraid to touch anything - the Lord Hand paid him a visit. The noble lord had looked him up and down once more, that strange glint of recognition in his eyes, before he told Gendry to “rest” for tomorrow, when everything would be explain.

 _Tomorrow? What would be happening tomorrow?_ Gendry wanted to shout and beg to be taken back. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but he would certainly try harder in the future. Had he witnessed a murder? Cheated a lord? Misplaced the King’s armor? None of this made any sense. If he had done these things, why wasn’t he hanging from his toes in the dungeons of the Red Keep?

Gendry just didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

The door opened - disrupting his hopeless thoughts - to reveal a bald, powdered man in long robes. Gendry had seem him from afar. Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers.

Lord Varys smiled gently down at him and Gendry lowered his eyes, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

“The Council is ready for you now.”

The butterflies in his stomach turned into angry birds, beating against the walls of this bowels. Gods, Gendry just wanted to go back to Tobho Mott. He followed the eunuch dutifully, all the while making sure to keep his gaze lowered respectfully. The Small Council chamber boasted a tall set of windows on the far wall that were currently open, and he looked up - startled - when a cool breeze tickled his face.

Numerous sets of eyes were staring at him. Gendry looked down once more and panicked. Should he have knelt? The eunuch didn’t tell him to kneel!

Flustered, he dropped to his knees now.

The Council did not respond to his gesture of subservience. Instead, they ignored him completely. The eunuch took his seat silently and the King spoke.

“This is the eldest male?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lord Varys responded in a smooth, velvety tone.

“This is the one Jon and you visited?”

“Yes.”

“And you, Ned?”

“He is the same, Your Grace.”

“He looks just like you, Renly,” the King chuckled lightly, “remarkable.”

“I was struck by the resemblance myself, Your Grace, when I saw him in the courtyard yesterday evening. None can doubt that he is of the Baratheon seed. Although the jaw resembles Stannis’ more closely.”

“We have the same bloody jaw, you fool.”

This last comment was largely ignored by the group, although Gendry could hear the one called Renly snort indignantly and mutter something along the lines of “mine’s more refined” before falling silent.

“I agree with Lord Renly,” the Lord Hand said softly, “None would doubt he is yours, Robert. The resemblance is uncanny.”

“You, boy,” Gendry felt his heart hammering against his ribs. “Stand up. Let me get a good look at you.”

Gendry slowly rose to his feet. His hands shook lightly and he desperately wished he had a hammer to clench in his fists. If for nothing else than to have something to hold. Whenever he felt stressed, it helped him to swing a hammer.

“What did I say last time, boy?” Lord Stannis barked, “Back straight, chin up. Look your King in the eye.”

Gendry obeyed without question and stood straight as a whip. The entire Council was looking at him curiously. The one they called Lord Renly was closest to him, and Gendry had to stop himself from staring. It was like looking at an older version of himself. Renly had the same jet black hair and blue eyes, the same nose and mouth, and the same stubborn jaw which was shared by the two other men next to him.

Gendry recognized Lord Stannis next, who was looking at him with interest. And now that it was mentioned, Gendry thought he might also resemble the older nobleman. Next to Lord Stannis sat the honorable Lord Stark, and next to Lord Stark…

_Look your King in the eye._

The actions rebelled against every lowborn instinct he had been taught, but Gendry took a great heaving breath and steeled himself. His eyes met the King’s.

King Robert was a fat man. Of course, Gendry knew he was fat. He had seen him from time to time riding to and from the city with his vanguard. Like Gendry, he had dark hair and blue eyes, only the King sported a rather impressive beard to cover his multiple chins. Robert was staring at his with open curiosity.

“What’s your name? What do they call you?”

“Gendry, Your Grace.”

“How old are you?”

“Six and ten, Your Grace.”

“Can you read and write?”

Gendry paused, “Some, Your Grace.”

Gendry could read. If he was being truthful, he’d say he was better with numbers than words. Tobho always set him to doing sums. He struggled with larger books, but could find his way around the city well enough, when the streets and squares were marked with signs.

“A problem easily remedied, Your Grace. A royal tutor will be summoned from Old Town, posthence.”

“And someone to teach him his courtesies,” Lord Stannis interjected harshly, “the boy is still fascinated by the floor.”

Gendry realized his gaze had drifted downward and his head shot up again. Stannis huffed but Lord Renly smiled kindly. “Oh, don’t be so dour, Stannis. See? He’s already learning.” Gendry glanced up at the lord’s compliment and met his gaze. Blue eyes that mirrored his own were filled with mirth. Of all the lord’s present, Gendy would have to say Lord Renly put him most at ease. The poor blacksmith’s apprentice from Flea Bottom managed a small smile and the Lord of Storm’s End nodded almost imperceptibly.

“To me, Gendry.”

Gendry almost started at the informal address and his eyes swiveled to the King. Robert Baratheon was looking him up and down again, paying particular attention to his arms. The King gestured with a meaty paw and Gendry took a few tentative steps forward. It occurred to Gendry that if he reached out now, he might even be able to touch the nearest golden goblet.

“You like to swing a sword?”

Gendry wondered about the purpose for all these questions, but he knew better than to ask aloud.

“I prefer hammers, Your Grace.”

For some reason, his answer seemed to amuse the crowd gathered greatly. The King was laughing uproariously, his large belly shaking with mirth. Lord Renly was also laughing, and even the serious Lord Stannis smirked - but Gendry would not call it a smile - with bemusement. Lord Stark did not smile, but Gendry saw a measure of approval in his eyes.

“Would you swing a sword, if I gave one to you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Gendry thought this question to be particularly ridiculous. He’d do whatever the King asked. He was the King!

“Ever ridden a horse?”

“Ye--”

“Oh, stop it, Robert,” Lord Renly cut him off just as he was about to respond, “Stop teasing the boy. We’ve more important things to discuss than whether or not he’s the second coming of Robert Baratheon in his youth. Clearly, the boy is yours.”

That was the second time Gendry had been referred to as the King’s. _The King’s what?_ Gendry wanted to know. _The King’s new cupbearer? The King’s new food taster?_ The entire situation was rather confusing. They’d remarked upon his physical similarity to the King and his brothers? Perhaps the lords might find it amusing to keep him at the court, as a novelty of sorts.

“I’ve a few questions, if I may, Your Grace?” the Lord Hand rose from his seat after a nod from the King. Gendry tensed as the older man approached, although he knew he shouldn’t show his fear, he couldn’t help the apprehension he felt about being approached by a man twice his age who had the power to crush him like a bug.

Lord Stark gently laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Do you know much about recent history… Gendry?”

Again, a lord had used his given name. It was startling to hear his given name coming from the mouths of giants.

“Some, my lord.”

“Speak in complete sentences,” another correction came from Lord Stannis. From the tone of his voice, the Lord of Dragonstone had given a command and expected it to be followed.

“Try again,” Lord Stark prompted.

 _Seven Hells, what did these people want from him?_ Gendry was just as confused now as he was yesterday, and Lord Stark had promised him that all would be explained. He should have known not to trust a lord’s words. The boys at the forge told him never to trust a lord’s word, but Gendry didn’t listen. Nothing had been explained. Why was he here?

What had he done wrong?

“I… know about Aerys the Mad, and King Robert’s Rebellion. I know about some of the battles and I remember people talking about the Greyjoy Rebellion, when I was little. I don’t know all of the details, my lord.”

“Do you know why the Targaryen’s no longer rule in King’s Landing?”

“What’s the point of this, Ned?” King Robert took a large pull from the wineskin at his hip and scowled.

“Answer, Gendry.”

Gendry was growing more accustomed to answering questions, and he seemed to be doing well, so he didn’t hesitate this time.

“The Targaryen’s are dead. King Robert slew Rheagar Targaryen at the Trident, Ser Jaime Lannister slew King Aerys and the rest are dead or disappeared.”

“Correct. There are no remaining Targaryen heirs to take the throne. Would you say it is important for a lord to have heirs?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you know what happened in the capital, two weeks prior?”

Gendry recalled the rumors he’d heard around the forge. Tibby, the whore down the street, was friends with one of the Queen’s lady servants, and Tibby was fucking Brandyl, Tobho Mott’s eldest apprentice. Gendry repeated what he’d heard.

“The… uh…” Gendry fumbled for his words and prayed to the Gods he would not offend the most powerful man in Westeros with his words, “the Queen was found to have had… an incestuous relationship with her brother and the King’s heirs,” Gendry coughed, “to be illegitimate.”

Gendry lowered his eyes to the floor once more and Lord Stark clapped him on the shoulder, “Do you know what happened to them?”

“The Queen was… executed.”

“I sent that bitch to the Gods,” King Robert snorted and took another long draw from his wineskin. “And relished doing it. Finally free from her meddling ways.”

“And--”

Gendry cut off suddenly and his eyes widened. He’d spoken out of turn! Panic raced through his blood. Oh Gods, what would happen to him now--?

“Speak, boy,” Lord Stannis, it seemed, would not address him by name.

Five sets of eyes awaited his words. A year ago, if someone told him that the King and the Small Council would be waiting on Gendry words, he’d have called them barking mad.

“And… the city thanks you for it. The Queen was not… well loved.”

Gendry waited for the headman’s axe to fall but none came. Again, he seemed to have amused the King and his younger brother, somewhat.

“Ha! I’d have like to send the complete set to the Seven Hells, but alas. Tywin Lannister promised to forgive the Crown’s debt to Casterly Rock in return for his beloved son. Three million gold dragons and the Kingslayer walked out of this city with his head still attached. He is disgraced, of course, and exiled from the capital for the remainder of his godsforsaken fucking life… let it never be said I am not a merciful King.”

“I even let some of the bastards live. Joffrey, I couldn’t allow that abomination to walk away from my house alive. I killed him swiftly. The others were too young and sweet by far. Ned and Renly convinced me to send the boy to the Citadel for training. The girl I gave to the Silent Sister’s. Their lives will serve the Kingdom, now.”

The Small Council seemed to be expecting some response for Gendry, because they all turned to gauge his reaction. Whatever he was supposed to do, Gendry didn’t know.

“Very justly done, Your Grace,” Gendry bowed his head in deference.

“Ha! I wanted to kill them all. But being the stupid-fucking-King of this stupid-fucking-Kingdom means giving concession after bloody concession to the fat Lords of Westeros. Years ago, I would have struck them down with a hammer and that matter’d be solved, but such is life. You get old.”

“Do you understand, Gendry?” Lord Renly’s kind eyes turned on him and Gendry swallowed.

Understand? Gendry truly didn’t understand any of this. He knew it was comical to listen to the fat King Robert accuse the other lords of being fat, but the Game of Thrones was beyond the scope of a poor blacksmith’s apprentice who was hardly even a man. What purpose could the Lord Hand have in parading him in front of the Small Council?

“Oh, please, the boy is terrified and confused. Just tell him, Robert. I’m satisfied. Stannis is satisfied--”

“Hardly. He is half-Robert half-lowborn.”

“--and Lord Stark and Jon Arryn know the truth of it.”

“Fine! Fine…” the King trailed off grumbling and Lord Stark’s hand lifted from Gendry’s shoulder. Gendry almost missed the heavy weight. As intimidating as the Lord Hand could be, he had felt rather comforted by the fatherly gesture. Now, he was standing alone exposed in the center of the room as Lord Stark resumed his seat at the King’s left.

“After the unfortunate accident with a boar…” King Robert began and then rolled his eyes in exasperation as he continued, “I can no longer sire children.”

Again, the Council looked to Gendry and he began to sweat. What did they want from him? Gendry recalled the period of unrest when the King had been infirmed and Lord Stark had been imprisoned. The Queen had made radical demands and the King would have died if Maester Pycelle had not been caught poisoning the King. The Grandmaester was discredited and sentenced to death. A Lannister man until the end.

“I am sorry, Your Grace.”

That seemed like the proper thing to say, Gendry thought.

“S’all well,” King Robert waved off the apology, “not your fault, boy.”

“And we’ve just spoken about the importance of lords having heirs,” Lord Varys spoke for the second time, looking sharply at Gendry.

“Aye,” the King took a swallow from his wineskin and spoke once more in slightly pained tone of voice, “I need an heir. A grown heir, who looks and thinks and acts like me. Enough to quell any rumors of illegitimacy and cement my rule. But I haven’t got an heir, and I can’t have any more. Fortunately for myself, I never retired from whoring and drinking as a King, and left behind a litany of bastards to choose from.”

Suddenly, the Small Council’s previous words floated back to the surface of Gendry’s mind. _This is the eldest male? Yes, your Grace. He looks just like you, Renly. I was struck by the resemblance myself, Your Grace. I need an heir._

_I need an heir._

All his life, Gendry had wondered about his father. Who he was, what he looked like. Gendry would lay awake at night and wonder about the man who left his mother pregnant and destitute on the streets of King’s Landing. Gendry knew his mother had blonde hair and brown eyes. She was a pretty, dainty thing, so Gendry deduced that he must greatly resemble his father.

_None would doubt he is yours, Robert. The resemblance is uncanny._

Realization dawned in Gendry’s eyes, and he stared at the King in a new light.

“Ah, I think our charge has finally deduced the reason we’ve summoned him,” Lord Renly said in a teasing tone of voice, “besides the fact that he’s devilishly handsome to look at, if I do say so myself.”

“Shut up, Renly.”

Gendry was at a loss for words, and so was the King, it seemed. Gendry could only stare, open-mouthed, at the father he always wished would come and rescue him from Flea Bottom. The father he dreamt would embrace him, and spirit him away from the city to live in a quaint little cottage on the edge of the wild. The father who looked like him. Whose voice sounded so achingly familiar.

“Is your mother dead?” the King asked, abruptly shattering Gendry’s thoughts.

A wave of anger and indignation crashed over him. Here, sitting in front of him, drinking and feasting without a care in the world, was the man who’d abandoned his mother so carelessly. The man who never appeared when Gendry was starving, or cold, or alone and praying for salvation.

The father who was only a few hundred feet away, surrounded by the warmth and shelter and safety that Gendry always craved.

It must have shown on his face because the King held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Answer the question.”

“Yes.”

Gendry realized too late that he’d forgotten to add the honorific.

“Uh… Your Grace,” he bowed his head.

The King laughed, “Oh, you’re my son alright. Only a seed of mine could act so brazen. That settles it. Do you have the papers?”

“The ravens have been prepared, Your Grace. Grandmaester Torhen only awaits your signature and the bastard’s name.”

“Give it to me. Give it to me,” the King gestured impatiently and Lord Stark retrieved a scroll from the large desk in front of them. King Robert signed it swiftly.

“Ah, boy, your name. How do you spell it?”

“G-E-N-D-R-Y, Your Grace,” Gendry had memorized it the day that his mother signed him over to Tobho Mott, on her deathbed.

“I like that,” the King muttered, “Nice, strong name. Your mother chose well.”

The papers - Gendry wondered what they were - were signed and seal. One, after another, after another. Gendry was forced to stand and watch as the lord began to bicker back and forth over whom to send which raven first - or second - or who most deserved a personal note. Should they summon Mace Tyrell? Who’d tutor the boy in history? Should he be anointed? Should all the realm by summoned for the boy’s ceremony?

Gendry shifted his weight back and forth and waited patiently to be addressed. This was the strangest day of his life, but he was beginning to believe that he just might survive this encounter with royalty. He was the King’s bastard. Gendry, the stubborn blacksmith’s apprentice, was a King’s bastard. The boys’ll never believe it. He hoped the King would send him back to Tobho Mott to continue his training.

The lords began to debate wither-tos and why-fors amongst themselves. After a half-hour, Gendry was growing bored, and hungry. In the middle of the large Small Council table was a large plate of meats and cheeses. Gendry had taken to staring at it hungrily.

“Ha! Finally, it’s done!” the King announced suddenly and stood. Gendry tore his gaze away from the food and realized their meeting must be drawing to a close. “Get used to this boring meetings, lad, I suspect you’ll be subjected to the lot of them, if Ned has any say in the matter.”

King Robert clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder and Gendry furrowed his brow.

 _Oh, no_ , he realized, _the King was keeping him here. In the Red Keep. Why? Why keep your bastard close?_

Finally, Gendry was tired of guessing the great lord’s motivations. Whatever the reason the King had for keeping him here, Gendry deserved to know. He deserved some explanation from the man who’d abandoned him. Gendry set his jaw and stood up straight, as Lord Stannis instructed. Looking the King in the eye, he uttered the one question he’d been dying to ask.

“Why am I here?”

“Why? This is the Red Keep, boy. Where else would the Crown Prince live?”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> It would never happen for a thousand reasons. But I had fun writing it!


End file.
